


Till human voices wake us

by verityshu



Series: The Winter Zombie [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Zombies, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes's Plums, Can't Resist A Plum Cameo, Captain America: Civil War (Movie), First Time, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Minor Injuries, Protective Steve Rogers, Shameless Smut, Some Plot Perhaps, Top Steve Rogers, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-14 06:19:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7156994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verityshu/pseuds/verityshu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve will always forgive Bucky for any transgressions, even when it comes to attempted cannibalism. </p><p>Featuring ZombieBucky and HumanSteve</p>
            </blockquote>





	Till human voices wake us

**Author's Note:**

> Not truly a sequel to 'The Winter Zombie' but more of a companion story.
> 
> This is an AU where Bucky is also called B (inspired by the movie 'Warm Bodies') and is a recovering walking dead after a zombie apocalypse swept the earth. Steve is human. Reading [ 'The Winter Zombie'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2061150/chapters/4479774) first isn't necessary but might probably make more sense =)

When he was dead, things had seemed simpler. Sure, outside of the vault, the air would be unbelievably thick with the reek of decay from the synchronized festering rot of at least half a million corpses gathered in the city. But as he was mostly deceased himself, the stink didn’t overly upset his olfactory senses too much. 

And it didn't matter he had no memories whatsoever of his breathing days when he was dead. His damaged mind was incapable of remembering the human he had been before he crossed the line between breathing and almost quite dead. Still, he thought he had been taking the memory loss in his stride, all things considered. Identities meant nothing in this spanking new world order of snapping teeth and fruiting bodies that refused to stay lifeless.

Until Steve came along and changed, well, everything.

Then there was the occasional setback of needing to feed, preferably on living breathers, when he was dead. While he despised this aspect of his brand-new existence, it was a compulsion he couldn’t fight against. It was bad to get to a stage to be so ravenous and all higher intellectual functions would virtually shut down. That he still could rationalize and think for himself were the only human aspects left to him. Traits which separated himself, and Nat, from turning into one of those millions of virus-infected dead shuffling around the world. 

He had tried in the beginning not to feed but eventually he would be reduced to doing anything in order to accomplish the prime imperative to fill his belly with brains and meat. To guzzle down honeyed, thick blood and satiate his thirst. He didn’t like it but he had to eat in order to endure in this purgatory condition.

Until he stumbled across Steve fighting for his life against a horde in an alleyway.

While the nights were long and brimming with the unrelenting moans and whisper-thin sighs of the restless dead, it was quiet and hushed inside the vault, an oasis of calm he built for himself. On retrospection, he realized considering the vault as something close to a home was ironic to say the least but it was familiar and he did appreciate no breathers or anything rotting and smelling like days old compost disturbed his tranquility back then. Nat who had been his only visitor and a sometimes companion during those days didn’t count as a disruption because she's a friend. 

It was an uncomplicated continuance of existence in a sense, when he had been dead. Until Steve, that is.

Steve of the gorgeous blue eyes and incredible physique with broad shoulders and brawny arms. Who emanated the most delectable aroma he had ever scented on a breather, making him feel so tremendously…alive again. The kind of alive that caused a heart to start pumping once more, returning heat to former stiffly inflexible limbs, and kick-starting a diaphragm to draw air that was not sour and decayed-smelling back into lungs. 

His beautiful Steve who had been the catalyst to ignite a match and light a fire within, shifting him from rather dead to being almost a warm body again. 

Steve who presently is draped across him like a big, smoldering blanket as they lie, in a tangle of limbs, on a very large bed.

Under typical (or as typical as it gets, living in Tony Stark’s Tower during the tail-end of a zombie apocalypse) circumstances, he wouldn’t be displeased to be woken up in such a way. But easy access to his most recent memories seems to be temporarily impaired and he has no idea how they got here in the first place.

A mouth trails wetly from the back of his ear, down to the hollow of his throat, and there's the unmistakable scrape of a tongue as it drags across his skin. He involuntarily curves his back as flickers of pleasure tickle down his spine from the feathery kisses. In doing so, he belatedly realizes his arms are straining over the top of his head, pinned there in a one-handed hold, the full weight of the other body pressing him down against the bed.

“Steve?” he mouths inaudibly, wits fogged by this unforeseen development.

The last credible memory he has was of a chilly morning dawn, with him and Wilson waiting on the helipad of the Tower to receive incoming survivors. Steve and Clint were conveying a small group of survivors discovered in rural Virginia, using one of Stark’s jets. It was good news and something badly needed by the team, given that it had been weeks since they had managed to determine signs of any new breathers from the on-going crisis of the world’s gradual depopulation.

The group was holing up in a prison compound and finding a broadcasting transmitter in the warden’s office had been a stroke of luck for them. Especially as they had close to a few thousand deadies surrounding and laying an unceasing siege at the penitentiary. They were running out of provisions and certain death seemed imminent until the team intercepted their distress call. In order to extract the survivors without any casualties, it had taken Steve and Clint four days to clear the zombies and get everyone out safely. Stark did offer to help nuke the surrounding area with all the remaining arsenal he possessed but everyone on the team vetoed the suggestion immediately. 

Standing on the helipad, he had been edgy as fuck, his entire body thrumming like a filament stressed to breaking point. He merely dismissed the tense uneasiness to missing Steve during those four days. Wilson was eyeballing him, his agitation and disquiet evidently communicating to the man.

He recalls Wilson at last breaking the silence to ask what in hell was up with him in an annoyed tone. And it’s at this point a curtain falls, cutting it short like a movie abruptly switching off in the middle. A blank space has been carved inside of his head, right after Wilson’s query. He can't remember what happened from that point in time to right now, as he's rousing to consciousness with the awareness of Steve’s lips trailing his neck, the intense temperature of his boyfriend’s body affecting him, and that he’s being pinned and restrained. 

Hazily, he thinks this has been done to him numerous times before in a vastly different setting; strapped to a black, cold chair, and caught so tight that only eyes could roll in sockets like some mad, cornered dumb creature. 

He starts struggling feebly. It’s out of an old animalistic instinct not to be quarried thus, to be so defenseless and open to an attack again. The fragment of the deadie inside him, the virus that turned him and most of the world’s humans into flesh-eating monstrosities, agrees and doubles its efforts to seize control of the situation. Be the predator and not the prey. Prey gets taken down and eaten swiftly. So he digs his feet against the bed and bucks against Steve, trying to dislodge him.

“B, I don’t know if I'm getting through but listen, shhhhh, it's me, Steve. It’s going to be okay, you’re going to be okay, I swear. There's nothing to be afraid of. Just come back, I know you can do it.” Responding to his thrashing, Steve is soothing and reassuring him. 

The familiar voice does reach him. “Ste..Steve,” he repeats.

“I’m here, right here, not going anywhere.”

He halts momentarily. The overriding impulse to break free is changing, is shifting to something on an uncomplicated, elemental level and the litany of words is becoming white noise to his ears. He recognizes what this rising urge is. He wants to eat and he wants to eat _now_. 

Because Steve smells so glorious, the scent all encompassing and pervasive, driving him senseless and irrational, filling all the hollow spaces he has. He wants to feed, eat, tear, shred and drink till his stomach bloats. He needs to crawl inside of Steve and stay within, satisfied and full, and they won’t be two bodies then, separate and detach, but one forever.

With a low snarl, his metal arm breaks free despite the strength containing him and he hooks thighs around Steve’s torso. He heaves mightily, turning sideways, effectively flipping Steve over to straddle him. His thighs squeeze to trap Steve’s hips, stop him from any possible retaliations. And the metal arm descends, steel fingers clenching around an unguarded windpipe.

Panting, breaths thinly coming out from starved lungs, the single thought beating within his head is how ravenous he is. 

“B, you’re going to be fine. Let me go. I won’t leave you again. I’m going to be with you till the end of the line.” There’s no fear or alarm on Steve’s face as he looks up, even though his throat could be crushed in seconds. B shakes his head, in angry denial, but it’s Steve, his Steve who would never lie to him. He believes this implicitly, but he’s _so_ hungry. 

Steve lifts his hands and his palms are cupping against the sides of B’s cheeks, fingers spread wide to curve behind ears, and towing him down towards him, so he follows because it's what he needs. He leans over his boyfriend, stretching his mouth open and it would be so straightforward and easy to just eat.

Fierce pain spikes through his brain synapses as it’s Steve who closes the distance between them, faster than he react, and Steve is the one to bite into flesh, right below his ear.

He keens with shock and with hurt, the resonance of his pain reverberating around the room. Releasing his hold from around Steve’s throat, he grabs a fistful of hair in its place, involuntarily tugging and he’s uncertain if he’s fending the human off or encouraging him.

Still worrying and gnawing the fold of flesh he has between teeth, Steve hoists his body up from the tug on his head and B almost loses his balance from the sudden movement. Steve holds him in place behind his back with an arm. Blunt teeth bites in deeper and it's not his jugular so he's not going to bleed out to death (again) but oh god, it feels like Steve is going to rip off a chunk of his flesh and greedily devour him whole, leaving not a single scrap left.

It does the trick. The deadie snarls helplessly; in spite of its limitations, it can and does distinguish the concept of surrender as well as the abysmal craving to eat. 

_Next time_ , it warns as it grudgingly retreats into a dark corner. _No, never again_ , B tells it mutely. The deadie hoots in mirth and something in its smirk implies otherwise.

“Steve. Steve..you can stop now. It's..done.” he says out loud instead. The hurting pressure lessens, leaving a stinging throb, when Steve releases him. There's rapidly cooling wetness trickling down the side of the neck and he surmises Steve must have broken through the surface epidermis to reach the blood vessels beneath and it’s fortunate he’s still straddling Steve and his boyfriend’s arms are still around his back or else he might flop over in an ungainly heap. 

He blinks woozily for a few seconds, willing the cloudiness from his mind to dissipate once and for all. He catches sight of something incongruous and his attention is wholly arrested on the bright smear of redness upon Steve’s mouth. He leans forward and there is no reluctance or hesitancy from Steve despite having been viewed as potential subsistence a few moments passed. When their mouths meet, B can taste his own blood. The hard tang of iron is prevalent, and he can’t deny it, it is supremely perverse in a way, but the scarlet, sweet taste makes him lightheaded with want. He fastidiously licks that mouth clean, darting his tongue out like how a cat would, and Steve lets him.

When he completes his task and Steve is cleaned of any residue blood, he’s the one still bleeding from the bite on his neck. Blue eyes are fixed upon him, with a somewhat assessing gaze. 

While B wants to say sorry for almost eating his boyfriend and worse, for wanting to, he also thinks he should ask what happened during the period when he blacked out first. He is about to do that when, without warning, Steve decides to drag the hoodie that he’s wearing up and off. 

He allows it, grunting when his head gets caught momentarily in the collar hood since Steve didn’t bother unzipping the garment first. His t-shirt is rucked up, baring his chest and Steve’s large, warm hands are all over it, thumbs rubbing until the nipples are standing pointed and turgid. Steve lightly traces the contour of one aureole with a finger before pinching and rolling a nub roughly.

B inhales back a groan from the raw pleasure and this is just too plain weird, from wanting to feed to wanting to fuck in minutes.

The deadie inside him grins, a sly smile gleaming with razor-sharp teeth, and it whispers that between feeding and fucking, both aren’t all that different really.

The hem of the t-shirt drops down and Steve makes an irritated rumble of displeasure. It’s not long before the offending item of clothing is dragged off him as well and unceremoniously discarded.

Steve doggedly grips the nape of his neck with a large hand and it’s more than a little déjà-vu for B to be pulled forward once more. He can't help but wonder if Steve is planning to plant another bite on him and if he's honest, he probably wouldn't mind if that comes to pass. “Just returning the favor,” Steve declares, dropping his mouth onto the bite. With the broad flat of his tongue, he begins to swipe around and across the immediate area of the wound.

“Wait, hold on, we can’t be sure if my..blood is safe. For you,” B tries to dissuade but Steve pays his protest no heed and carries on with what he’s doing, tongue lapping carefully around the broken tissue. It smarts and soothes at the same time but he’s not going to let the human be possibly infected again just because he really likes it when Steve does all kinds of depraved things to his body.

Arms goes around his back and hands slips through the waistband of his jeans to palm firm buttocks. “Hey, no fair,” he protests weakly as his hips start moving on their own accord, rolling and bumping in tandem with those hands kneading him, onto Steve’s pelvis.

Steve eyes him, taking in the sight of B rutting lasciviously against him. “I know," he replies but does stop laving the bite to concentrate on other things he can do to B. Such as having a thumb glide in between buttocks to press hard on the puckered opening. A tremor rocks through him as Steve makes his ultimate aim known. The thumb increases its pressure and sinks in slightly, the tip of a rounded nail scratching at the cusp of the inner crease of the hole.

Steve’s stiffness is burning against him as he grinds down harder and his own cock is trying to react in kind from the exquisite chafing and friction. It half-achieves its mission, increasing from flaccid to a semi-hard state.

“Not all..the way yet,” he explains incoherently, with some frustration. His body is willing, more than willing, but even as he’s becoming alive, Bruce had mentioned some things will take time.

Steve realizes his quandary. “Remember what I promised you? Back at the clinic?” he asks, voice raspy. 

That he does, seeing how he has been waiting for the promise’s fulfilment for what seems like an infinity. Since the clinic and in the aftermath, Steve has not crossed the line between fucking and actually fucking _him_ , always stopping at the last moment, even though B can tell he wants to let go. He wouldn’t go as far to call Steve a cocktease…no, he would call Steve that because it’s true. He has been tortured and kept as a tool for murder for decades by a malevolent shadow organization and that experience doesn’t even come close to having his cock sucked by a wet, enthusiastic orifice and consequently Steve pulling off to mumble some gobbledygook along the lines of how he’s not ready yet.

“You plan on doing it now? Going to fuck me nice and slow with your big, fat cock? Ream me so nice until we break the bed? Until I howl for mercy? Even then, you won’t stop screwing yourself into my hole because it’s opened only for your cock and you’re shooting me wet and full with your juice?”

The original James Buchanan Barnes unexpectedly rouses and he inquires in B's stead. A barely there jerk on B’s right eyelid is the only indication of the brief switch as the provocative words leave his lips.

The slight reddening on Steve’s face is endearing and he reaches to stroke one heated cheek. He will always adore the tactile sensation of Steve’s blood flushing across skin underneath his fingertips.

“I’ll do my best. Only I want us to do it like this. I want you to ride me.” Steve’s pupils are enlarged with ferocious lust as B nods his acquiescence. The expression across his boyfriend’s face is almost certainly how he looked like when he was about to eat him.

He lifts himself on his knees, displacing Steve’s grasp on his rear. When his crotch is directly in front of Steve, he baldly orders, “get this off me”, referring to his jeans.

Blushing more, Steve complies and unlike the hoodie and shirt so hastily discarded, the jeans are gradually unfastened, the steel zip drawn apart with agonizing slowness, centimeter by centimeter. All the while, Steve is covering his bare stomach with kisses, alternating with deliberate sucks over his bellybutton. When the zip reaches its end, the jeans are pushed and wadded to the top of his thighs.

His cock remains half-hard because he’s still not all human with a human male’s ability to achieve a full erection. He sighs a little, in disappointment. Steve grasps the cock, the warmth radiating from the hand causes him to whimper and his metal hand clutches one of Steve’s shoulders, depressing pale indents into the flesh

“We’ll get there.” Steve promises a new pledge to him as he rubs the cock-head in swirling, circular motions with the pad of a thumb.

“It's something to look forward to…” he agrees and stops speaking, as his spine arches in a taut bow and he can’t breathe anymore because Steve is enclosing the tip with his mouth. The tableau when he recovers enough to glance down through lidded eyes appears so obscene; having this act done to him by Steve, who is still dressed, and who usually appears angelically virtuous in all his magnificent Captain America blondness on a regular basis.

He’s not able to come and it doesn’t matter if satisfaction remains infuriatingly out of reach because it’s Steve. He continues studying avidly as lips consume his cock completely and chiseled cheeks hollow in and out as Steve expertly blows him. Eventually, he places a hand on the top of the blonde head and, with care, nudges Steve off. “We need lube. And everything off.” He waves a hand vaguely, indicating his last remaining article of clothing and Steve’s own clad state.

It takes them a few minutes since they have to peel themselves off each other in order to accomplish the mission to undress and retrieve lube. He does get the opportunity to witness Steve strips the shirt he is wearing off, revealing a hairless, powerfully muscled torso, followed by pants. Whereas his own penis might not be able to get erect completely, Steve visibly has no such trouble. A fully rigid, blood-flushed organ juts out from the thatch of curls between Steve’s legs and when he notices B’s consideration on it, he colors a scarlet shade once more but doesn’t do anything to hide his clearly evident desire.

Steve catches his gaze and in the interim of the preparation, B can see his human has started thinking too much and is wavering. “Maybe this isn’t such a…” Steve begins and oh hell no, he’s not going to let this happen another time.

He more or less shoves Steve back onto the bed, and clambers on quick as a whippet, bracketing Steve’s thighs with his knees. He doesn’t fully sit upon Steve’s lap yet, rising on his haunches and hisses, “lube”. Steve bites his lower lip, shakes his head slightly in defeat, and gives him what he is demanding. The tube is pristine and plumb in its unused state but B reckons it won’t be long until it’ll be as flat as a sheet. He flips the cap, one-handed, and smears a liberal amount onto his hand.

He stares into Steve’s eyes as he reaches behind himself and impatiently rams two fingers inside his hole. It instantly throbs, bordering on pain and something that is almost pleasure but not quite. His anal muscles automatically try to force the intruders out and he disregards this by expelling all the air from lungs and nudging the fingers in further. Steve steadies him with hands on his waist while simultaneously looking like he wants to apologize abjectly for suggesting to have sex or pulling B’s fingers out and replacing them with his own.

“I’m okay.” He manages a smile of reassurance, hoping it doesn’t resemble a grimace. Scissoring fingers, he stretches himself more prudently. The sting significantly lessens and he's a little surprised to find that the temperature inside himself is hotter than he expected, considering he has been diagnosed as clinically dead a few months ago. “It’s good.”

Steve looks a little disbelieving at the assertion that it feels good but he squeezes some of the lotion from the tube and reaches between their stomachs to prepare himself.

Not another word is said and B slants his body forward, moving his knees further apart until cool air touches his exposed anus. Perhaps the deadie is right after all and fucking and eating isn’t that dissimilar as all his senses are intensified almost unbearably right then, at the threshold of breaking apart. He takes hold of Steve, positioning the head at the entrance of his anus and lets gravity do the rest as he sinks deliberately, letting his hole expand slow and sweet around Steve’s girth.

As soon as he’s seated flat against sturdy thighs, he leans backwards on Steve's legs to snap his spine taut with an audible crack as the myriad sensations of having Steve’s cock finally in are sweeping over him in crescendos. A guttural growl of approval issues forth from Steve as the sight of B impaled on his cock presents in front of him.

He can feel the engorged head pushing in, the velvety rough texture of the cock scraping against the wall tissues of his innermost passage, the dorsal vein throbbing a rhythmic cadence. It’s excruciating and acute and indescribable and if he has his way, he'll never wants this joining to end.

When it’s time, B rises and Steve’s shaft slick smoothly out of him until only the head remains encased.

"Look at me," he instructs and then plummets downwards as solidly as he can. Steve clenches his teeth, pressing lips tightly together, and the tendons at his throat stand out in defined relief and that's too much control for B. He wants, he _needs_ Steve to lose it completely and absolutely. So he repeats the action a second and a third time, stuffing his hole full with Steve’s lovely cock. His anal muscles protests against the brutal screwing but he doesn’t care, it’s truly so good, like he had told Steve earlier except, this time, it’s true.

At last, Steve lunges up, eyes feral and almost appearing akin to a deadie who has spotted quarry and is going in for the kill. Instinctively, B wraps his legs and arms around his partner and clings on for dear life. Steve grips the underside of his buttocks and he’s being effortlessly lifted and lowered so hard and so deep onto the waiting cock that he wastes his own air when he screams, molten electricity shocking his spine.

He’s not sure if he can survive this. He just might die a second time around from the utter hedonistic pleasure of having achieved his objective as Steve is trying his best to fuck him senseless. To keep from dying, he blindly seeks and finds Steve’s lips and their mouths crush together in a messy, sloppy kiss, comprising of gasps and pants, spit and nipping teeth.

The graphically explicit, squelching noises of their fucking in addition to the sounds of meaty smacks as B’s butt slaps onto Steve’s thighs overwhelm the room along with the heavy musk aroma of sex. It’s blisteringly hot, his skin is on fire and he’s dripping sweat for the first time since the metamorphosis began. His penis jerks between their torsos and despite the fact he can’t get full-on hard yet, he thinks he can still achieve orgasm because there is a gratifying sensitivity tightening behind his balls.

He whines into Steve’s ear, to warn him he’s coming very soon. At the next boost from Steve’s serum enhanced arms, he helps by thrusting his pelvis downwards, spearing himself wide open as he had said he would.

His body stiffens, fingers clawing into Steve’s shoulder blades as the sole indicator of his release.

After another remorseless lift and impalement, he perceives Steve's cock shuddering and secreting spurts of seed inside him. As his partner goes through his climax, he swiftly seals his mouth over Steve’s and inhales the precious gulps of air the other is discharging so wantonly.

When he swallows enough, he breaks the contact to collapse a sweat-beaded forehead on a similarly damp shoulder and he’s terribly sore and contented and he has not died again from Steve’s admirable fucking skills.

Steve turns his head and nuzzles through dark hair to press a closed kiss on the bared neck. “The bed didn't break,” he informs hoarsely and B gives a tired, amused huff. 

"We can break it next time.” Steve is softening so he lets him slip out and the ensuing ache serves as a reminder of his returning mortality.

Once they're separated, Steve rolls to lie on his side to face him. On B’s part, he’s already mourning their detaching but on the other hand, he has a naked Steve on display next to him and it’s breathtaking. The human is made up of hard planes and smooth skin sheathed over corded muscles, expansive shoulders, and narrow waist with sharply defined hipbones. The cock has gone lax and supple, blandly curled within its nest of wiry, blonde curls.

B lays his palm over the organ that had so recently been in him, forging a connection of him and Steve, if albeit temporarily. The foreskin is sticky clammy with Steve’s ejaculate and remnants of lube but it’s fine by him. He’s _eaten_ human beings, so what’s a little post-sex messiness.

“What happened? On the helipad,” he finally asks.

Steve closes his eyes briefly, appreciating the feather-light touches on his sated appendage. “You tried to eat Sam,” he admits to B.

“Did I? Managed to eat him?” Even as he probes, he expects he didn’t. In all probability. There’s no lingering taste of spongy brains cloying at the back of his gullet. And for the reason that Steve actually likes Wilson, whereas his own acquaintance with the breather designated as Falcon isn’t as staunch, he hopes he didn’t succeed in eating the flying birdman for Steve’s sake.

Steve smiles crookedly as if he guesses B’s thoughts. “Sam’s in one piece. He fought you off until we got there in time. I had to take you down quickly and I remember there was that time at the clinic when you told me to, erm," he coughs faintly and goes on, "...fuck you. Thought it couldn't hurt and it might bring you to your senses. You startled the survivors though. Bruce had to calm and assure them there was no danger from the contagion here in New York City. Sam will be sporting a few bruises from the punches you got in but he’ll be right as rain in no time. His pride’s probably sorer than the shiner he has, I suspect. You don’t recall any of these, do you?”

“I know I tried to eat you. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. I could tell you were crazy out of your mind with the hunger. B,” he pauses, “…have you eaten anything at all since I was away? Regular food? I left steaks in the fridge for you.”

Ah. He hasn’t as a matter of fact. The steaks are ensconced safely inside the freezer compartment of the fridge, still wrapped, unfrozen and uncooked. It’s not that he forgot to eat them, it merely slips his mind sometimes if Steve isn’t around to remind him. Or to cook for him. He likes having Steve whip up a meal for him. Even when it contains not so good victuals like broccoli.

Steve has raised an eyebrow with some exasperation, having gleaned the answer to his question from B’s thoughtful rumination on broccoli. “You have to eat something and it shouldn't be people. Bruce did say maintaining a standard regime of our type of food could help drive the process of you turning back. At the very least, it’ll keep you from starvation and not eat Sam or me. And anyone else, for that matter.”

“Fucking works better.”

“B.”

He shrugs because he’s right. Or he tries to since it’s not easy shrugging with panache when one is lying flat on a bed, after being well and truly fucked, and fondling his boyfriend’s penis, but he's still of the opinion it does help better than any breather food could.

He has a sudden idea, of wanting to make a tear and peel back the sheath covering his body to let Steve see his most inner and secret workings. The chalk-whiteness of bone, pale tinted pinkness of ropy intestines and a ruby-crimson heart that is beating strongly now that Steve is home again. But doing that might alarm Steve so he doesn’t. He settles for taking the wrist of Steve’s hand and placing the palm over his chest, letting him be aware of the steady rhythmic palpitations.

Steve’s adamant expression gentles although he persists. “Please? You have to try. For me.”

“Alright, fine,” B grumbles. He could never say no to this particular breather; he has realized this fact to his detriment. "So you fucked me because you had to?"

Steve chuckles at B's rather plaintive tone. "No, I wanted to, of course, dummy. And once you're able, you can do me too. I'll like that a lot if you do." 

The strident, repeated knocking on a door from outside of their living quarters interrupts them. Tinnily, both can hear Clint calling out from behind the closed door. “Yo, Cap! I’ve got plums here. One of the survivors, Carol her name is I think, she gave them to me as thanks and she asked if I could pass some along to you too. Open up, will you?”

Steve hurriedly sits up, swinging his long legs over the side of the bed and jostling B a little. “No better time than the present, right? You think you can...stomach some fruits?” 

B throws a well-deserved glare at him for the truly awful pun but nods. Broccoli he might scorn vigorously but sugar-sweet, moist plums are a different story altogether. 

Steve beams in return and strides out of the bedroom to the outside quarter. “Steve…,” he calls to his boyfriend but it’s too late. There’s the sound of the door to the apartment suite whooshing open and a dead silence falls, punctuated by the unmistakable thud, thud, thud of numerous plums tumbling to the floor.

“The fuck are you opening doors naked!? For the love of all that's holy, put some clothes on before I spend eternity in hell burning for a sight I don’t want to see!” An unseen Clint is squeaking,, his normal voice reaching one octave higher. And B can already hear Steve’s footsteps hastening back to the bedroom. “Bruce said you guys had an exhibitionist streak but I thought, what, Cap? Nah, can’t be. But he’s right! Bruce is right!”

On the bed, B grabs a convenient pillow to mash his face with and starts to laugh.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I had been attempting to write a longer sequel for 'The Winter Zombie' but it wasn't going the way I wanted it so I stopped and decided to write this quickie to close the gap instead and also try my hand at some bad zombie smut.
> 
> And I got to meet Sebastian Stan (and Chris Evans sort of, since he zoomed past fairly quickly, lol) at the 'Civil War' premiere! SQUEE! The man is so, so beautiful in life and nice and the moment he smiled at me as he signed my poster will forever be burnt in my memory bank.


End file.
